The Weight of a Name

Dear Delyara, The house is completely still at 2:50 AM, and I am sitting on the living room floor with an old photo album resting on my knees. I found myself looking at a picture of my father when he was my age, standing outside his first workshop with dirt on his apron and a massive, proud smile on his face. He carried himself with a quiet dignity that I feel like I lose a little bit more of every single day. I think about the expectations tied to my family name, the legacy of hard work and resilience that I am supposed to uphold. Tonight, looking at his eyes in that faded photograph, I feel an overwhelming sense of shame. I am working myself to the bone, grinding through the dark, and yet I feel like I am completely failing to build anything of lasting value. I closed the album because the disappointment in my own chest was becoming too hard to bear.